


And The Better Man

by obstinatrix



Category: Lord Peter Wimsey - Dorothy L. Sayers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-13
Updated: 2007-12-13
Packaged: 2018-01-25 03:17:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1628690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obstinatrix/pseuds/obstinatrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'We were together since the War began.<br/>He was my servant, and the better man.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	And The Better Man

**Author's Note:**

> Written for hangingfire

 

 

  
_We were together since the War began._  
He was my servant - and the better man.  
\- Rudyard Kipling, _The Servant_  


"He's still there," remarked Sergeant Bunter curtly, twitching the curtain in a manner altogether more appropriate to a suburban housewife than to a gentleman's batman of two years' standing. "Shall I ask him to clear off, Captain?"

Captain (peacetime, _Lord_ ) Peter Wimsey laughed shortly and regarded his batman with eyes that retained more than the suggestion of a smile. "I shouldn't bother, if I were you, Bunter."

Bunter frowned. "He wants something, sir; and that's certain."

"I knew him at Balliol." Wimsey crossed his long legs with unconscious deliberation and began tapping the toe of one boot absent-mindedly against the other. "The worst he can be after is a free lunch for old times' sake; I can't pretend it would put me out of pocket."

"But he hasn't the right, sir!" protested Bunter, suddenly roused. This did not escape Peter's notice, and he allowed the smile to manifest itself upon his face.

"Oh, I don't know. All those terms he spent, cultivating the friendship of a Duke's son - several essays he lent me - poorly written, I must admit, but they provided self and like-minded friends with hours of amusement at the poor fellow's expense - "

Bunter's frown deepened. "Essays be - !" A shadow passed over the sergeant's face, as if he were attempting to gain mastery of some strong emotion. Recovering himself, he went on: "I beg your pardon, sir, but he hasn't got the right at Litherland, I'll be bound, and I won't have you think so."

The man outside, Lord Peter noticed, had turned his back momentarily, and was lighting a cigarette. Bunter was now fixing the back of his skull with a resolute look of death. Peter suppressed his amusement, wrapped as it was in a not-unwelcome cloak of affection for his batman, Bunter the loyal, Bunter the ever-defensive, Bunter the perfect sergeant. He looked back to the pile of papers in his lap, awaiting his attention.

"Leave him be, Bunter," he commanded levelly, a little of the affection trickling into the tone to gild its firmness. "He's all right."

Bunter was never one to countermand an order, and he relented immediately, turning from the window, but his little sigh and passing expression of disinclination did not escape Peter's notice. But that was Bunter all over: if he could be said to have a flaw, it was surely a slight _over_ -attentiveness to duty, at the expense of himself - and Bunter seemed set and firm on Peter as the sole deserving recipient of his attentions. After all, Peter _was_ his officer.

Bunter was a little older than Peter was - as a rough estimate, Peter might have suggested a disparity of perhaps two or three years, no more. Nevertheless, to Bunter's mind, this was clearly enough to admit him the position of caregiver, guardian and protector, although there may have been something in the man's personality alone that would have cast him inevitably thus, had he been ten years the younger. Peter had seen men of fifty lavish nothing short of hero-worship on officers of eighteen, slaves to bright hair and young faces, and dress uniforms with swords in scabbard. Bunter was not the hero-worshipping kind.

That Bunter cared deeply for him, Peter did not for an instant doubt. On more than one occasion, he had surprised his sergeant regarding him with a look in his eyes which, under any other circumstance, he would not have hesitated to call the evidence of love. The first time this had happened, Bunter had flushed and looked away, rather suggesting to Peter that perhaps he, too, might have said the same. Of course, he may simply have been startled, or embarrassed at having been observed dreaming on the job, as it were. One could not leap to conclusions.

Sometimes, though, he wanted to. The previous winter had been a cold one - quite in accordance, as Peter did not fail to point out, with the run of bad luck that had steadily dogged them all that year. In billets, this was bad enough, but in dugouts, even in support trenches, it was, at times, quite unbearable. At such times, the men of Peter's regiment had done what men's instinct will always command them to do in cold weather, and huddled together, clinging together in sad, sodden piles of humanity, like Grecian warriors sharing cloaks around a campfire that existed only in their daydreams. Bunter, reliable Bunter, had been a warm solid weight against which to rest, his arms a rare and certain haven. Sometimes, when Peter was sure that he was sleeping, he had dared to run a hand through Bunter's hair, which had been soft and a little wiry to the touch; or to trace his fingertips lightly over his face. He could not deny the simple truth of the fact that he was nowhere more absolutely _himself_ \- if himself could exist in a France that was no longer anything but a bloodthirsty chessboard - than in Bunter's arms.

The fact did not worry him unduly. On occasion, however, he felt that it worried Bunter, who had not the Eton-Balliol experience to assure him that there is love and there is love, and that sometimes, _in extremis_ , the two might merge without its being a cause for alarm. Bunter did not know this. He had no reason to know it; but when Peter looked up and startled him in some small act of fondness, he wished at Bunter's blush and retreat that he could tell him. Of course, there was no appropriate way to do so.

Bunter sat opposite him now, and had picked up a stack of manuals and begun sorting through them, although he kept, Peter noted, one eye on the window, as if to ensure ability to deal with any future nefarious visitors. Peter was almost out of ink, his pen scratching on the paper, its mark growing fainter with each passing letter. He would have to go to the Equipment Officer for more, and what a trial _that_ would be. But this was no good; the words were barely ghosts, now. "Damn!" he muttered under his breath, as the pen sputtered violently and without warning, vomiting the last of its capacity over an already unsatisfactory line of hard-wrought letters. Bunter's eyes were on him in an instant.

"Sir?"

"Oh, blast it! It's nothing, Bunter; except that I've run out of ink. And it'll be an awful nuisance trying to wangle any more. Those fellows always look at one as if they think one must be deliberately appending curlicues to each letter, or something, just to use the stuff up faster. Blow!"

"I'll fetch it, sir," said Bunter placidly, rising and setting down his manuals neatly on the table. Peter would have protested, had not Bunter looked at him then in a way that told him expressly that objections would not be entertained. He subsided instead, and said, "You are good to me, Bunter."

The flush that crept across Bunter's cheekbones at this was now familiar; but the steadfastness with which he held Peter's eyes was not. "It's my duty, sir," he said flatly, but his knuckles gripping the back of his recently vacated chair were white. "That's what I'm here for."

What was _that_ , Peter thought idly, and where was _here_? He suspected _that_ of being rather more than the fetching of ink, and _here_ of denoting a wider arena than the Rifle Brigade. But Bunter was waiting, so he only smiled a little and said, "Yes, I suppose it is. Still." He held Bunter's gaze a moment longer, and let the smile grow warm.

"I'll have it for you as soon as possible, then, sir, if you'll allow me," Bunter retorted, turning abruptly for the door.

Peter laughed, and stretched out his legs in front of him, catlike, taking advantage of the stolen moments' rest. "Oh, I always do," he murmured softly, as the door closed behind his batman. "I always do, by Jove."

 


End file.
